110 
When Zepliyrus drives the red clouds i’ the mony 
The lark upsprings 
On her dewy wings. 
From our sheltering sprays to the sky upborne. 
And, soaring, sings 
Her love for the wild and jDurple Heather, 
Where her callow nestlings lie safe together. 
Glorious, and glad, and dear are we. 
Ringing our bells o’er the heath in glee. 
Glorious and glad — and oh ! most dear 
Ts the Heather-bloom to the mountaineer; 
And dear to his children, who, laughing, come 
And carry bright wreaths to their cottage home. 
As the blessed things roam, ’neath their fairy feet 
We rustling dance, 
And our heads advance 
Their innocent hands to gift and greet; 
For childhood’s glance. 
When playmates laugh menily out together. 
Like sunlight shines on the bells of Heather. 
In our freedom we scorn such slaves as ye. 
Your empty pride, and your vanity: — 
Ye are fine, ’tis ti’ue — and neat and trim. 
But are ye not shut in a prison dim ? 
Ye ai’e captive slaves, though ye boast and sneer. 
And think we should bow to your grandeur here. 
